Make Me Learn

11 - Vulnerability

My phone alarm chose violence and woke me up with a jolt . I grappled with it, slamming the Snooze button through bleary eyes. It shut up, finally, and I tossed it onto the bedsheets next to me. Crisp bedsheets, smelling faintly of roses. I was in Louis's guest bedroom, where I'd slept the first night in his house.

Not his bed.

I brushed off the twinge of disappointent. It was obvious why Louis wanted to do it like this. It was the same reason he didn't orgasm alongside me. I was at arm's length. He was only training me; a means to an end. We weren't dating or any of that bullshit. Frankly I shouldn't even have stayed the night, but Louis had insisted, saying it was too dark to get home on my own, especially covered in cuts and bruises. I didn't protest. Anything to delay seeing my mother, and the barrage of questions about my black eye that would follow.

My freshly washed clothes sat in a neat pile outside the bedroom door. I tugged them on after a brief shower, taking a moment to ruffle up my hair in the mirror. The bruise blooming across my eye socket was starting to gleam with yellow. It throbbed as I stared at it. The finger-shaped blotches on my neck didn't look as angry, through, and I tilted my head to get a better look. I saw myself start to blush as the memory played behind my eyes. Louis's big hands, firm and squeezing.

I tore myself away, just as there was a knock at my door.

"I'm going into town," came Louis's voice, "and can drop you off near college, if you want?"

College. Fuck. My neck burned. "Sure, thanks," I replied, grabbing my phone before following him out the house to his car.

The car hummed to life, the purring engine filling the silence that settled between us. I felt his eyes on me, on my ugly purple fighting wounds. I glared out the window to avoid meeting his scrutinising gaze. Was he fucking judging me? It's not like he would get it. His life was perfect. Nice family, posh house. Subs in every city to satisfy his every need. He didn't get why I needed to fight, let the white hot rage take over and beat someone into the fucking ground.

"Can you stop fucking staring at me?" I snapped.

I knew Louis was frowning without having to turn around. I heard him breathe in, and winced. I really couldn't stop myself, could I? Had to be nasty at every opportunity. Had to push away.

"Ah, I'm sorry," Louis said.

"What?"

"I didn't mean to stare. Quite rude of me, to be honest. It's none of my business." His voice was sincere, no hint of sarcasm.

I blinked. This man and his infinite patience. Anyone else would have invited me to fuck right off at this point. I stumbled for words, then managed to steel myself. "It's fine," I said curtly.

"It just looks very sore," he said.

"You literally just said it was none of your business."

"No, of course," Louis said. "And I won't ask. But I will advise some paracetamol, and a bag of frozen peas. It looks significantly more swollen than last night."

I scoffed. "The best I'll get at college is a wet paper towel. And painkillers are for pussies."

Louis went quiet. He slowed the car, rounding a tight bend in the street. The engine thrummed.

"You have to look after yourself if you want to engage in BDSM, Damon," he said, eventually. I won't train you if you don't treat your own body with the respect it deserves."

"Oh, my body's a fucking temple now, is that it?"

"You know that't not what I mean," he said. "It's just - if you can't manage your own pain when your body is hurt, how can I trust you to know your limits when it comes to aspects of BDSM that inflict pain by choice?"